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Before Life
Before Life is a short story that centres around Solum. It is a prequel and a teaser to the upcoming VIVA. ---- I don't know where I am, or who I am. All I know of is the cement box that imprisons me. It is all I know now, and all I ever have known. Four pale grey walls, and an equally dull ceiling and floor. Few things reside in this room besides myself: a small light that hangs from the ceiling glowing weakly; a small black pen with a seemingly-infinite supply of ink the colour of a raven's feathers; pages with words scribbled upon their once-blank canvases; and an empty tome. This room, these objects, they are my family. The only other person I've ever met was the old man who comes through the large metal door that marks the only entrance and exit to this room. He speaks to me very rarely, mainly bringing me food so I do not starve to death. He treats me as a prisoner, imprisoned simply for living. I know not his name, to me he is only The Old Man. While he wears all white, a shadow of death and despair looms about him. Auras clashing. One of the few things he said to me was this: "Stop gambling away their lives. Your games cause others to suffer. Have you no empathy? No care!?" I know not what it means. Whose lives? I know no one but him, and even if I did, I could not do anything to anyone. I'm only a child, 15 years at the oldest, my body frail from the lack of appropriate nutrition and exercise. Should the light fall from the short ceiling, I'd more than likely die should it hit me. So then, who? To whom is he referring? Every day I write in my pages. I write the dreamlands my mind wanders to while I sleep. Does he come in and read them while I am unconscious? Are those the lives he refers to? But, they are in no harm; they are simply fictional characters, after all. Why would their lives matter to anyone? My questions were all answered the other day. The old man barged into my room, and gathered all my things. The many papers on which I scribbled, and the pen I use to record my thoughts and dreams. With that, he told me it was time to stop playing around. To do what destiny had set out for me. Then, later, he acted as if nothing had happened; bringing me food with only a curt nod or a scoff. That night, I had a vision. A phrase swam through the murky depths of my mind, painting my heart and soul with its letters. A phrase not unfamiliar to me. It was the first thing I heard when I awoke all those years ago, in this prison that I call my home. The man surely knows what this secret is, but won't tell me. I've asked before, his only reply being that I "stop speaking nonsense." To me, it's clear. He knows who I am, and why I am here. When I awoke the day after my possessions were taken from me, something was wrong. There, on the cement ground upon which I lay, there sat a neat stack of papers and a pen. Though groggy from my sudden awakening, I read the first page over. Then the second. Everything I had ever written had been neatly stacked up; even that which was confiscated the night before. Except the last page. The final page in the pile bore only a single phrase. I rolled my sleeves up. The words from my vision burned into my skin, just as they had my heart and mind: This world holds a secret. The man was furious when he returned. He refused to give me food that day. Then, after a few days, he disappeared altogether. Hours, then days, then weeks passed, and I never saw the man again. No food was ever brought to me, yet I never grew hungry nor thirsty. Each day, I reread the final page in the pile that appeared next to me. It's time to live. Time to live? I went through each and every one of the pages I wrote upon until I found it. It was the first thing I had ever written when I awoke. A man, cloaked in shadow, gaining power by devouring worlds. When those whose worlds were destroyed were united, they stood together as a rebellion, fighting to defeat him and restore the power of their worlds. Alas, their leader, a woman in blue, was injured and nearly killed; her body torn asunder and brought to safety to heal. I remembered that story then, as I read. I remembered every detail of that dream, as if it was replaying in my mind at that moment. Every small detail, from the clothes the characters were wearing to even the cracks in their voices when they spoke. Everything was clear as day to me. Over the next few days, I went through the pile to find everything I had written. To arrange it by when I wrote it. Eventually, I had the first four parts all in a line, though none connected to it. The next story began in a room, though very much unlike the one in which I live. Colours draped the walls and floors, and people sat within it. It was a special room, where those whose futures were unwritten were sent. As I write this note, this diary to keep track of my progress and my life, I can recall every single detail of this next story. It made me remember distant memories long imprisoned in my heart. It helped me regain myself. These stories, they taught me what it meant to be truly alive. As I recall each story, read the recordings of dreams long-faded, I feel like there's something burning in my mind. Perhaps, if someone ever reads this page, they would feel the same way. So allow me to retell this story. A story of loneliness, and what it meant to live. Category:Short Stories Category:Teasers Category:Bola Parasola Category:Rose Warriors